There is an old, wrinkled book on the shelf

It reeks of mysterious tales and wise sayings

Peacefully quiet and restful

As it settles in a hidden corner, watching young seekers of truth

Each wrinkle on its old cover

Speaks of an experience

Each handwritten sentence

Narrates quaint tales of the past

Though its colours have faded with time

They have made vibrant its age

Elevated it from the ordinary journal 

To a saga of timeless wisdom

It hasn't tried to protect itself

From the glaring heat and rough winds

But welcomed them willingly

And has eroded away to reveal infinite value

Well, its ancient, deformed exterior

Has turned away seekers of beauty

Who noticed just the deep creases and folds

But not the intense intrigue they hide

But it's a very satisfied memoir

Absorbed in its own depth 

So it revels in the stories it holds.

And converses with mythology.